


Unraveled

by Idrelle_Miocovani



Series: Arrow of Carnations [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Romance, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 01:42:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19219042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idrelle_Miocovani/pseuds/Idrelle_Miocovani
Summary: She is captivated by his stories; he is taken by her kindness. There has been something between Josephine Montilyet and the apostate known as Solas since his arrival in Haven, but neither of them have acted upon it.Until one night.





	Unraveled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Viking_woman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viking_woman/gifts), [bearlytolerable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearlytolerable/gifts), [EllsterSMASH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllsterSMASH/gifts).



> [Viking_woman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viking_woman) is entirely to blame for this, and by extension [bearlytolerable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearlytolerable/pseuds/bearlytolerable) and [EllsterSMASH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllsterSMASH) and is based partially on their responses to a three-sentence fic prompt thing on tumblr. So this is for the three of you. 
> 
> Welcome aboard the Josephine x Solas train. 
> 
> I have no shame.

The sun set hours ago, but Josephine remains in her office. Candlelight flickers across her desk and a fire roars in her hearth, keeping her warm as she works. She dips her quill into an inkpot, delicately taps off the excess, and continues to scratch away at a letter to the Marquis of Val Falaise. 

It is a crucial letter and has taken up most of her day, as crucial letters tend to do. Despite having an office to herself, Josephine's workspace is hardly private. At any given moment, the Inquisitor or one of her companions is bound to open the door (without knocking), passing through on the way to the War Room. If it isn't the Inquisitor, then it's Leliana or Cullen's agents (again, without knocking), come to requisition something they are sure only the Inquisition's diplomat can handle. Or it's the chamberlain, come to complain (when will anyone learn to knock?) about yet another hole in the wall or the lack of kitchen supplies. 

It's a wonder she accomplishes anything. 

Yet Josephine, in her fashion, greets every interruption with a smile a nod. She graciously puts out fires all around the drafty castle, even as the stack of reports and letters threatens to grow beyond her own height. Fatigued as she is by sundown, she welcomes the night. It is the only time she can finish the task at hand. 

Her hand hovers above the letter, brow furrowed as she considers her wording carefully. A glob of ink hangs by the tip of her quill. 

_We must ask again for your assistance…_

_Your aid is invaluable to our cause…_

A knock on her door. 

The ink drips, splotching the parchment, blotting a line. 

 _"Sweet Maker!"_ Josephine curses. 

The door opens. "Ambassador? Are you quite well?" 

"Oh, Solas! I—" Her annoyance evaporates. She looks up and smiles as he enters the office. "I'm very well, thank you. I smeared ink on a rather… _officious_ letter and I am quite annoyed at it." 

Solas chuckles. "That is a pleasantly mundane answer. I am glad—since the earlier attempt on your life, we have all been concerned for your well-being." 

"It's kind of you to worry." 

"How could I not?" Solas folds his arms, leaning against the door as he gazes across the office with the intensity she has come to associate with him. "You are a pillar of this organization. You do more for the Inquisition than anyone realizes, not even our beloved Inquisitor—" 

"I wouldn't quite phrase it that way—" 

"Without your talents, this organization would be nothing more than a band of heretical cultists hiding in the mountains," Solas interrupts. "You bring the Inquisition legitimacy. Even I, such as I am, can see that any political sway the Inquisition has gained has been your doing… and yours alone." 

Josephine purses her lips, rolling her quill between her fingers. "I don't believe you are as immune to power and politics as you pretend, Solas." 

"Oh?" 

She smiles. "For all your claims to be an elven hedge mage, you understand the game's most basic tenets. Observation—" 

He chuckles. 

"—and perfectly-timed flattery." 

His laugh fades. "Ambassador, if I have been too forward—" 

"No!" Josephine puts down her quill. "No, of course not—" 

"I hope you do understand that flattery does not come easily to me," Solas says. "If I flatter you, my feelings are genuine. In all of Thedas, you are remarkable. I do believe that." 

She blushes. Hoping he hasn't noticed, she looks to the window. It is a clear night, the sky dusted with stars. A few lights flicker in windows around the castle. Not all of Skyhold has fallen asleep. 

Far away in the courtyard below, a warm glow rises from the tavern. She imagines the laughter, the smiles, the drunken jokes—soldiers and agents and mercenaries all putting aside the day's work to enjoy the freedom of companionship. The entanglements of lovers, the couples who run away, hand-in-hand, to seek whatever privacy they can find.   

In the tower opposite, a candle flickers in a high window. Cullen's window. She wonders if the Inquisitor is there. Their relationship has blossomed over the preceding months. Josephine watched it grow, encouraged it even. With all their trials and tribulations, they deserve some peace and comfort. 

She cannot help but feel the sting of envy. She ignores it, never voices it, never lets herself grow bitter. But more and more she wishes that she could have whatever Cullen and the Inquisitor have for just one night. 

"I apologize, Ambassador," Solas says. "I did not mean to intrude. If you would have this night to yourself, I can return tomorrow. My question is not pressing. I should not have interrupted—" 

"Would you like cider?" 

Solas falls silent. 

"I know you don't care for tea," Josephine says, pushing her chair back and rising to her feet. She walks to a little cabinet in the corner and opens it, withdrawing two porcelain cups. They are bone-white with an intricate mosaic of blue and gold spread across the surface—a gift from her sister, one of the few things from Antiva she brought with her. "But I can offer mulled cider." 

He bows his head. "I would enjoy that." 

Josephine smiles and bustles about the office, pouring mulled cider for Solas from a rune-lined pot. Solas crosses the office to accept his cup. He takes short sips as he sits gracefully on the couch, sinking into the golden cushions. He watches with fascination as she boils water in a runic kettle and pours it into her teapot.  

"That is fine dwarven craftmanship," Solas says. "Runic technology to boil water. A marvel, truly." 

"Yes," Josephine replies. "A gift from the Orzammar delegate." She pauses, hand on the kettle's handle. "Which Sera then stole and gave to Dagna, who promptly augmented it." 

"Dagna has a gift." 

"She does! But she could have asked me in person. I would have happily given it to her. She didn't have to send Sera." 

"Ah, but where would the fun be in that? I see Sera's influence at work here." 

"No matter," Josephine says, waiting for her tea to steep. "It made its way back to me and it is much improved. It's a wonder, truly. It makes quite the impression on Orlesian and Fereldan delegates. No need to ring for a servant when I want a simple cup of tea." 

Solas sips his cider. "This is excellent. Thank you." 

"I'm glad," Josephine says. "I've not had much of it. Another gift, from Duke Jean-Gaspard de Lydes." 

"Is that not the duke whom you installed at the Inquisitor's behest?" 

"Yes." 

"It seems your hand is at play all across Orlais," Solas says, taking another sip of cider. 

"We must forge alliances," Josephine replies. "Without them, we cannot fund our mission. And without funds we are, as you say, merely heretics hiding in the mountains." 

Her gaze wanders to Solas, sitting in his comfortable silence on her couch. She's not sure why he has chosen to visit her at this hour. From the tales he spins of walking in waking dreams, sleep is valuable to him. She doesn't understand it—she's no mage—but she tries. That he would choose to spend his night with her over wandering the Fade baffles her. 

And makes her heart flutter. 

This is not the first time they have danced this dance. From the moment he arrived in their camp at Haven, Solas has fascinated her. He has told her countless stories, of magic and mystery and murder, of historic heroes and mythological villains. She has learned more from him than any history book, but unlike the dry pages of a book, his voice and command of language is… intoxicating. Like the mystery that clings to him like a cloak. 

He is so amiable, yet he keeps himself at a distance. He knows so much, but he never explains _how_ , other than to say he learned it in the Fade. She's not sure if she believes him—the other mages in the Inquisition certainly don't—but even though he does not wear his heart on his sleeve, she has no doubt that his intentions lie in the right place. He has never meant anything but to help the Inquisition.

 _In all of Thedas, you are remarkable. I do believe that._  

She's entranced by him. 

She wonders if he's entranced by her. 

"May I ask something of you, Solas?" she says, finally pouring her tea. She picks up her cup. The fine porcelain pleasantly warms her hands. 

"Yes, of course." He looks at her, blue eyes intent under his fair brows.   

"Do you have any tales to share?" She swirls her tea in her cup. "I know I ask often and I don't mean to pester you, but they do bring me such joy."

He raises an eyebrow. "They do?" 

"Yes." 

He pauses, seemingly shocked by her admission. "I have come to believe that most find my tales… boring. Or long-winded. At any rate, I cannot do justice to the craft when Varric shares the same roof." 

"They aren't boring at all!" Josephine exclaims. She sets down her teacup before she sloshes tea over the rim. "How could anyone say that? They're fascinating. Oral tradition is strong in Antiva, but the south prefers novels. I miss that about my homeland. Listening to an expert storyteller is like listening to a fine musician, except the music is crafted by words." 

Solas chuckles. "Ambassador, your passion for the things you love is contagious. I will continue to enthrall you, by all means, if that is your wish—" 

"Only if you want to," Josephine says, stumbling over her words in her haste. "I wouldn't _force_ you to entertain me, that is absurd—" 

"I am happy to!" Solas says. "Ambassador, I enjoy your company." 

"You… do?" 

"Yes. Why else would I be here, at this time of night?" 

Josephine picks up her teacup. "The kind of interruptions I receive at all times of day _and_ night might surprise you. If I am here, my door is open to all, even when it is closed. Did you know you are the only person who has cared to knock all day?" 

"Ah…" Solas drinks his cider. His cup is nearly empty. "Of course. I am sorry." 

"For what?" 

"That your kindness is often taken advantage of." 

A flush creeps across her cheeks. Or perhaps she's too warm, with the tea and the candles and the fire roaring in the hearth… "It is the nature of my duty. I must make myself available—" 

"Perhaps," Solas interrupts. "But you are also a person. You deserve more than to be treated like a cog in the machine." 

Josephine glances at the unfinished letter on her desk and drinks her tea. She makes a face. The liquid is bitter, she must have left the leaves steeping for too long. But it will do. The tea will keep her awake long enough to finish her address to the Marquis. 

"I would hope so," she murmurs. "But there is much to be done." 

Solas puts down his cider. He gets to his feet, sweeping across the room with an elegance and grace that belongs to him and him alone. She has never truly registered his height. Most elves she has met are short, averaging somewhere between humans and dwarves. But Solas is different. He reminds her, at times, of the ancient elvhen statues retrieved from old temples and displayed in the University of Orlais. 

She has a feeling he would disapprove of those display. She does, too, though she knows so many who cannot fathom why. 

Solas touches her hand, fingers brushing her skin, lingering on her wrist. His eyes search hers as he brushes a loose lock of hair behind her ears. She breathes, and his scent washes over her—sandalwood and pine and mistletoe, vibrant earthy smells that rest heady on her tongue. 

"Josephine," he says quietly. "You are not chained to your position." 

"Solas, I…" 

His intensity catches her off-guard. She looks away, setting her unfinished tea on her desk. Her eyes scan the letter to the Marquis. 

 _Your aid is invaluable to our cause—_  

Solas' hand is on her cheek. "You asked for a tale," he says, his voice low. "Let me tell you one. It is not one I have seen in the Fade, nor one I have gathered from ancient tomes and long-lost histories. It is a simple one. A timeless one, of a man and a woman and all that stirs between them." 

She blinks. Her heart flutters in her throat. What did he…? Could he…? 

"What do you mean?" 

It is a stupid question. She regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth. She knows what he means. She has known for months now. It is written in the lingering looks, the tales he tells her, the quiet company they have shared. 

"Do you not know?" he says. 

 _"La splendeur des cœurs perdus,"_ she says. "The—" 

"The splendor of lost hearts, yes," he finishes. "I am familiar with the Orlesian tradition." 

"Love acknowledged in secret, but never acted upon. Never… consummated." 

His hand brushes escaping ringlets away from her face. Her braid is coming undone, as it usually does at the end of a long day. 

"I would," Solas says.   

"You would what?" Josephine murmurs. Her heart trembles. A shiver runs down her spine. 

"Act upon it." 

He kisses her, his lips divinely soft and warm. His hand rests against the back of her neck, pulling her to him, his mouth moving against hers, deepening the kiss. Her lips open and she tastes cider on his tongue, the sweetness of the apples and the spice of the cinnamon rolled together into an intoxicating flavour… 

Her breath catches at the back of her throat and she pulls away. "Solas…" 

"I'm sorry," he says. "That was too forward of me. You have work to accomplish and I have distracted you from it. I apologize." 

He steps back, bowing his head. Josephine watches as he walks towards the door, frozen in place. It is as if a spell has been cast over her. The kiss doesn't feel real. She brushes two fingers against her lips. She can still taste the cider. 

"Wait," she calls. 

Solas pauses. His back is to her, that long, strong back, corded with muscles. He stands very still. Waiting. 

She must say something. 

"I would act upon it as well." 

Solas turns, his profile in sharp focus, illuminated by the flickering flames of the hearth. "Is that what you desire?" 

"I have many desires." She steps towards him, taking his hand in hers. "This is but one of them." 

"Are you certain?" 

She steps in front of him, raising his hand and kisses his knuckles. His fingers are long and slender. She imagines what he could do with those fingers and is enraptured by the thought. "I am very certain. Are you?" 

He raises his free hand to the back of her head and pulls a pin free, uncoiling her braid. He gently pulls it apart until her dark hair is flowing loose down her back. He strokes her hair, mesmerized by it. "I am," he says. He leans close and presses a kiss to her cheek. "I have no desire to play out the grand Orlesian tradition," he murmurs into her ear. His lips graze her earlobe. "I am drawn to you as I never thought I would be drawn to anyone." He kisses her ear, teasing it with her tongue, chuckling at her throaty gasp. "I would make love with you tonight. Though I understand that it is not on the agenda." 

Laughter bubbles up and out of her and Josephine turns her head, and, hands on either side of his face, kisses him fiercely. "It is now," she says against his lips. 

They move, legs intertwined, stumbling backwards until they hit the wall. The fire in the hearth beside them crackles happily. Solas presses her against the wall, his hand on her breast, the other cupping her arse. She hums with anticipation, tension coiling deep within her, all thought of the Marquis' letter evaporating from her mind. 

Solas kisses her jaw, his lips firm and fiercely. Her hands run down his back, feeling the tense muscles beneath his tunic, pulling him to her. She feels the growing bulge in his trousers and shivers with delight. 

His lips flutter against her collarbone. "It is good to see you relax, Ambassador Montilyet," he says between kisses. "Someone as lovely as you should not live her life so high strung." 

"I'm not high strung," she says. "Why does everyone think I'm high strung?" 

"You carry your tension." He runs his hands over her body, his fingers lingering on every part of her. "Here—" Shoulders. "Here—" Breasts. "Here—" Stomach. "Here—" Waist. 

How she wishes to feel his touch on her skin. 

Her hands snake around his waist and she pulls him to her, grinding against him. The wall is hard against her back, but she enjoys being pressed between him and it. 

"I would see you unraveled, Josephine," he murmurs, nipping her ear. "Your loveliness is vivacious, and you are, in many ways, a spirit of perfection. But tonight, I would undo that. If you wish." 

She wraps her hands around his neck, pressing her lips to his ear. She runs her tongue over his earlobe and up, light and teasing. He utters a groan, falling into her, burying his head in her neck. Her teeth graze his upper ear and he shudders in pleasure. 

Josephine chuckles. "I could say the same of you," she says. "How many times must you be correct in your relay of history, perfect in your spellcasting. Perhaps _you_ are the spirit of perfection. I hope _you_ aren't afraid to come a little undone." 

"I… can do more… than a little," he gasps, breathless. 

She smiles, pleased with the sensitivity she has discovered. "I am prepared for this. I've had my own supply of witherstalk for some time now, should the need arise." She cups the bulge in his trousers. "And I say the need has risen." 

Solas snorts.   

Josephine locks her hands around the back of the neck. "Unravel me tonight, Solas," she says throatily. "And I will unravel you." 

His eyes glimmer. _"Yes."_  

Josephine has imagined this moment before, though she never breathed a word of it to anyone. In the privacy of her own thoughts, her imagination is rich and vibrant, and _he_ became a central figure. She imagined Solas as a patient lover, slow and sensuous. 

He is not patient. 

Solas' kiss is fierce and urgent. His tongue is hot in her mouth, his teeth scraping her lower lip, rough but not enough to cause pain. His long fingers are at her waist, untying her sash dropping it to the floor. Layers of blue and gold clothing flow free about her and he works at the laces, untying her, unravelling. In an instant her clothes hang off her shoulders in a state of liberated disarray, laces unbound, open in the front. 

Solas' hand brushes her naked stomach, running his palm upwards across her brown skin, delighting in her curves. His touch his electric and she shivers in pleasure. He kisses her and cups her left breast, squeezing, caressing, enjoying the weight of it. His thumb strokes the mole below her breast, then runs across her taut nipple. He whispers a pleasurable sigh against her lips.   

"Shall we continue?" 

"Oh, sweet Maker, _yes."_  

He chuckles, kissing her collarbone, lingering as he sucks and nips at her skin. She hums in delight, eyes closed, the sensation sweeping over her. He kisses down her chest, both hands fondling her large breasts. He flicks his hot tongue over an erect nipple, teasing it until she moans. She gasps in anticipation, head thrown back, drawing in breath, stomach clenching. His mouth closes around her nipple, nipping and sucking. Tension coils and desire flares within her, rushing to her head.   

"Sweet Maker, I—" 

Solas wraps an arm around her waist, his hand caressing her arse. He squeezes, fingers digging through the blue fabric of her bloomers. His free hand slips down her stomach to her waistband, loosening the laces one by one. 

Anticipation rolls down her spine.   

With the laces of her trousers loosened, he pulls her close, his mouth on hers, his kiss hot and vibrant. His fingers slip below her waistband, cupping her cunt, a finger sliding through her hot, wet folds. He brushes her clit. 

Josephine moans against his lips. 

He chuckles against her lips and circles her clit with the tip of his finger, stoking her desire. She shivers, hot and cold all at once, her skin prickling. She melts into him, hands digging into his shoulders, lips scraping against his. The more he unravels her, the fiercer she becomes. Her teeth pull at his lower lip.   

Two fingers stroke her clit, faster now. She trembles in his arms. Her hand fondles the bulge at his crotch, stroking it through the fabric of his trousers. She wonders what his cock looks like and shakes with the knowledge that she will know soon. 

Solas grunts and withdraws his hand. "I think," he says, kissing her, "we should move elsewhere." 

"Yes," she mumbles against his mouth. "I do agree." 

They turn, stumbling towards the couch. Solas' hands are everywhere—breasts, shoulders, stomach, hair, worshipping her with every touch. She can feel his rush, his urgency to return to their lovemaking. 

The backs of her legs hit the couch. Josephine draws away, seizing Solas' hands. Her eyes find his—brown to blue—and she smiles vivaciously. Her eyes do not leave Solas' as she slowly sits down, pulling him down with her. He kneels before her, putting his hands at the waistband of her drawers. 

"Josephine—" 

"Yes?" 

"May I?" 

She nods. He smiles, an impish smile, uncharacteristically devious. He hooks his fingers around her waistband and pulls her drawers down. Josephine lifts her rear so he can pull them off, and settles back down on the couch, bottom bare, legs spread apart. Her long hair falls over her shoulder in a cascade of loose waves, covering her breast and reaching to her stomach.   

Solas leans forwards and kisses her, one hand cupping her cheek. His lips trail down her neck to her collarbone, nipping her so hard she knows he will leave a mark. Thank the Maker her clothing covers her up to her neck. No matter what they do tonight, nothing will show tomorrow— 

Josephine gasps, mouth open, lips parted, gasping for breath. 

Solas' fingers have slipped inside her, pumping, curved within her. She widens her legs, pressing her back hard against the couch. Solas kisses down her torso, lingering at her breasts, lips pulling at her nipple, nose pressed against her stomach, mouth worshipping every curve. Down and down he moves, past her bellybutton. He kisses her above the thatch of dark curls, his eyes flashing up to her briefly, looking for permission. 

She nods. He lowers his mouth to her cunt, tongue swirling around her clit and she has reached true bliss. His fingers still deep within her, he sucks on her as he pumps, pushing her closer and closer to a peak. Her hips buck and her hands go to her breasts, fondling, caressing, pinching her nipples. She looks down at him, the sight of him worshipping her with his tongue and she _moans._

Panting, gasping, shaking, Solas leads her to her peak. As her orgasm shatters her, all she can think of is this elven man and his magic tongue. 

Solas releases her and smiles blithely. "I believe, my lady, you are suitably unraveled." 

Josephine pants, shaking, and pushes her hair over her shoulder. Sweat gathers beneath her breasts. "Did you use magic?" she asks. 

He raises an eyebrow. "No." 

"Oh." She laughs and collapses sideways onto the couch. "Pardon me for saying this, but your tongue is certainly magical." 

The impish glimmer returns to his eyes. "Do you want me to use magic?" he asks, wiping her slick off his chin. He sits next to her.    

"I… would find that interesting," she says readjusting herself so she lies flat on her back, sinking into the pillows. Her golden blouse and blue overtunic still hang about her. It feels strange to be both clothed and unclothed. She eyes the bulge in his trousers. "What magic would you use?" 

"Lady Montilyet, you are an adventurous soul," Solas chuckles. He trails a hand over her legs, fingers brushing her thighs. "There is a spell to enhance pleasure. It is a thought, a spark, a caress—" 

Josephine sits up. "And you know it?" 

Solas pauses, eyes sweeping over her. She meets his gaze, but her fingers go to the laces of his trousers. She pulls them loose, one by one.

"Do you think all mages sexless?" he says. 

"Of course not." 

The laces undone. Her hand hovers over the gap. She looks at him and he nods. She pulls the fabric apart and Solas' cock springs out. It is long and hard, its girth not as wide as she imagined. The ruby tip is wet and wanting. She delicately spits in her hand and wraps her fingers around the base of his shaft. 

She pumps. 

"Spend enough time with the study of magic and you will quickly learn there is a spell for anything you can imagine," Solas continues. He gasps at the end, flexing his hips up in response to her touch. 

She pumps, enjoying the feel of his cock between her fingers. 

"Do continue." 

"For example—" He grunts. "While I do… enjoy the pleasure…" He grasps the back of the couch, fingers seeking support. "The pleasure of using my tongue on a lover…" 

She tugs and tugs, her rhythm quickening. His cock pulses beneath her hand and it is glorious to provide for him what he has for her. 

"If we had engaged in another act… that required stamina on my part—" 

"Like this one?" she laughs. 

He groans. "Yes, like this one… I… could resolve… my fatigue after the act with _magic—"_  

He comes, loud and hot and a mess, his spend hot on her hand. She leans over him and licks him clean, musk and salt on her tongue. Solas seizes her and pulls her back on the couch, pushing her down into the pillows. She laughs, her hair a messy halo around her face. She pushes herself up and kisses him. She still has the taste of him in her mouth, but his lips taste of her and the cider. A heady mix that wafts through her, sublime and intoxicating. 

"You could resolve your—ah— _fatigue_ right now?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. 

He looks down at his spent cock. "I could." 

"How curious," she says. "I know many a man who would give his right hand for such a spell." 

"I will not use magic unless you want it of me," Solas replies. 

Josephine's hands run down his chest, fingering the hem of his tunic. She tugs on it and he relents, letting her pull it over his head. His wolf-jaw pendant beats against his chest and he takes it off. He pulls down his trousers, tossing them away, and hovers over her, hands on either side, pushing into the couch's cushions. 

His nakedness is illuminated in the firelight. Her eyes rake over him, taking in his pale, lean figure, spotted with freckles. She wraps her legs around him, pulling him to her, hands on his arse, kissing his cheek, his neck, his ears. 

"I want you to use magic," she says in his ear, her tongue teasing the sensitive spot. 

He groans, nearly collapsing into her chest. His kisses her, hot and hard. 

"As you wish." 

His kisses the hollow of her neck, one hand sliding over her body, caressing her curves. He pinches her nipple, and rubs a thumb over it, teasing it. He bends his head and kisses her breast. She sees no light nor hears no murmur of a spell, but she feels his cock, hard and urgent, pressing against her cunt. She spreads her legs wide, tilting her hips up. His cock nudges her clit and she moans with need. Solas chuckles, grasping his cock and teasing her clit until she trembles beneath him.   

Desire flares within her, needy, hungry, urgent. "I want you," she hisses. 

He plucks her nipple. "Do you?" 

"I want you to use magic," she says. "Show me what it's like—" 

His cock pushes against her cunt. His lips part and his all breath and grunts as he enters her. She moans, gasping as she stretches, filled with him. They rock, finding their rhythm, their bodies slick with sweat. He supports himself with one hand as he thrusts, the other teasing her breast. 

"Solas—" 

He runs a finger over her swollen clit. She moans, her voice echoing through her office. It swirls in rhythm to his thrusts, and her gut clenches, her desire building. His lips capture her mouth and all she can think of is the damn cider that started it all. 

His touch is everything. Caressing her breasts, stroking her thighs, rubbing her clit, fondling her arse, kissing her mouth. Her skin is aflame. He is within her, outside her, everywhere. She can't tell where she ends and he begins—he is in every part of her. She doesn't know what is magic and what are his fingers. He has found every sensitive part of her and he is stoking the sensation, bringing her to mind-numbing pleasure— 

She cries not his name, but her own simple pleasure to the vaulted ceiling as she comes, wave after wave crashing against the shore of her evaporated tension. She feels loose and free and wild, like she has been released from a cage she never realized she was in. 

He grunts, groaning something in elven, something she does not understand, his mouth against hers, then breaks just as she did, spending himself within her. It is a moment of nothing but magic and sensation. 

Solas slips free from her and collapses on her chest. She wraps her arms around him as a happy haze descends on her mind, clouding her thoughts. In her exhilaration, she can only think of her and him. 

She kisses his cheek. "That was some magic." 

"It was," he says. "I am very tired now. But it was more than worthwhile, I think." 

She laughs, crinkling her nose. He kisses her forehead, then pushes himself off her. 

They sit on the couch for some time, Josephine's head on his shoulder, her long hair a mess around them both, his hand on her leg. They are naked and warm before the fire, a mess of breath and magic and happy exhaustion. Now the exhilaration has left her, she feels full. Satisfied. 

Loved. 

"You know," she says, intertwining her fingers through his, "it's a marvel no one came through that door." 

"Hmm, yes," Solas replies. "I didn't think of that possibility." 

"Though I suppose… the risk is rather… erotic." 

Solas chuckles. "I could agree," he says. "Though perhaps next time we will remember to lock the door. Or take clandestine meetings to our quarters." 

Josephine closes her eyes and nestles against him. "I'm glad you say there will be a next time. I am looking forward to _many_ next times. 

He runs a hand through her hair. "As I am, _vhenan,"_ he murmurs. "As am I."

"What does that mean?" she asks. 

"My heart." He looks at her and thumbs her chin. "For that is what you are." 

Josephine's eyes widen. Her lip trembles and presses her hands to his face, gazing at him, taking in every detail. The keen blue eyes, the fair brows, the angular nose, the strong jaw. This man. This mysterious, unfathomable man. Maker knew what she was getting into, but she didn't care. 

She has no desire to play the game of _la splendeur des cœurs perdus._ In a time when her duty takes precedence, when she has so little time for herself, she has never allowed herself to act upon her desires.

Until now. 

Tonight, she is glad she acted. 

Tonight, she is glad she put away the diplomat. 

Tonight, for the first time in months, she is truly happy. 

Josephine kisses Solas, gently, quietly. She closes her eyes, basking in the hearth's warmth. 

"Then I am glad, _amor."_


End file.
